The buried man was just struggling out of the white mass when a hand closed on his coat collar. It dragged him from the pack and held him firmly down. Not till Tug made sure that the revolver was missing did he let the man rise.
“Wot’ell’s eatin’ youse?” the rescued man growled, snarling at him.
Tug Hollister stood face to face with the tramp he knew by the name of Cig. Recognition was simultaneous.
“What were you doing at my camp?”
“Aw, go chase yoreself. I ain’t been near your camp.”
“All right, if that’s your story. We’ll go back there now. The sheriff wants you.”
The evil face of the crook worked. Out of the corner of his twisted mouth he spoke venomously. “Say, if I had my gun I’d croak youse.”
“But you haven’t it. Get busy. Dig out your skis.”
“Nothin’ doing. Dig ’em yoreself if youse want ’em.”
Hollister knew of only one argument that would be effective with this product of New York’s underworld. He used it, filled with disgust because circumstances forced his hand. When Cig could endure no longer, he gave way sullenly.